Morning Smoko

The gate is shut,
cranes stand still.

In the local cafe
high viz vests
drape over chairs,
hard hats rest beneath;
construction workers
sip on cappuccinos
waiting for
fried tomotoes,
eggs poached runny,
or fried with golden eyes,
sausages and crispy bacon;
overflowing plates appear,
they sigh with satisfaction
and shovel in with glee.

 

 

 

 

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